Limit Break
by Kudoh
Summary: After defying Hannibals' orders and leaving Langely for a day, Face finds his relaxing afternoon with Gina ruined when they are attacked by mob agents.
1. Chapter 1

**Limit Break**

**By**: Kudoh

**Summary**: Suffering from a bit of cabin fever, Face's plan for a relaxing day out with his date backfires considerably when they are targeted by mob agents.

**Timeline**: Set several months after '**Without Reservations'**.

**Disclaimer**: Don't own the A-Team. Never have. sniff

**Limit Break**

Chapter One

'**The Great Escape'**

A perfectly calculated strike on the back of the neck, from a poised palm, sent the now unconscious Able into a rather noisy pile on the floor beside the attacker's feet, which were stylishly clad in black cowboy boots sporting silver detailing on the toes.

Bending over slowly, the attacker held his breath, finding movement he'd so often taken for granted, now seem to tug and saw on every muscle in his middle. Gritting his teeth, the man took hold of the black suited Able by his armpits, and unceremoniously pulled the man inside the bedroom door with a lot more effort then he'd planned on.

Catching his breath, the stealthy attacker quietly straightened, resting both hands on his hips, squinting to breathe out a taut '_ow_' through an open mouth as his healing injury wagged an invisible finger at such bold movements.

Deciding to give the wagging finger a blind eye, the attacker waited a moment to listen for any approaching trouble, then glanced out the door of his bedroom, hazel eyes casually surveying the hall. From here, he could just catch a glimpse of the kitchen's pristine white counter top and polished sandstone tile flooring.

The big black man who now seemingly patrolled that area, gold jewelry jingling from a wad of necklaces collected around his neck, hadn't heard the noise, and seemed unaware that one of Stockwell's infamous agents, or '_Ables_' had just been knocked for a loop. His feathered earrings flounced against shoulders wider than the state of Texas, and the perpetual scowl written across his dark face was no indication of his mood. For all the attacker knew, B.A. could be happier than Christmas and still growl like a _grizzly_; something the attacker never understood, but simply accepted as fact.

Slipping past B.A. would indeed be a challenge, but there were more ways out of the building than just the front door, and he'd address every one of them before daring to see B.A. on the war path-especially since the war path would probably be in the _his_ direction.

No amount of smooth-talking could soothe the burly, savage beast at times like that.

"Hey, _fool_, get that off your head. Whatchyou think you're doin'?"

B.A. moved in a gust of camo colored shirt and clanking gold, causing the attacker to duck his head behind the safety of the door frame.

Ah. _Good_. Somewhere in the living room, Murdock was fooling around and causing a convenient distraction to pull B.A. away from his kitchen 'post'.

Smirking, the attacker quickly shut and bolted the bedroom door with a soft creak, and then went about disrobing the unconscious Able.

Bending down to perform the task was no easy matter, but he'd gotten this far, and with an indifferent jerk of his head at the still wagging finger, he pulled off the black suit jacket and worked on the infuriatingly tiny buttons on the dress shirt.

Stupid Ables; what ailed them to buy such cheap clothing? He had no hard time believing Salvation Army sold better suits.

Once stripped, the Able was stuffed into a nearby closet, with the door left open a crack, and the attacker went about the difficult task of pulling the Able's oversize pants on over snug blue jeans. It had been hard enough putting his jeans on, what with his festering injury and all, but now to wrestle on yet another pair of pants over the jeans he was wearing was simply exhausting.

Once zipped, he simply stood in the middle of his blue walled bedroom, facing the mirror, hands loosely dropped on his hips while he caught his breath and winced. If he wasn't such a poor loser, he would've given up on this whole idea a long time ago.

But ever since Hannibal and the others had told him "no", it had sort of awoke a little red eyed demon inside of him somewhere. One with bad manners and even worse hearing, especially when it came to Hannibal's' orders to stay put.

Smiling impishly at his reflection, and feeling particularly devious, he continued his mission, and soon found himself dressed in the somewhat baggy ensemble, tugging the last notch on the leather belt and neatening the cuffs of the black suit jacket. Buttoning the Able's starchy white shirt over his own grey and blue dress shirt finished the ensemble.

The conmantipped his head to the side to critically study his new look, flouncy pieces ofsandy coloredhairresponding to the action bybobbing over his forehead at a quirky angle. Actually, heto admit, itdidn't look half bad, although the sleeves were a tad too long, and the cuffs of the pants gathered around the ankles of his boots.

Oh well. He was now an Able. One of Stockwells' 'A-Team Babysitters'. Unnoticed and uninteresting to just about every member of the team. Slipping out of the house would be no problem as long as no one saw his face. For once, he admitted grudgingly, his infamous good looks were going to be an issue.

Donning the Able's dark sun glasses and digging out the black rain poncho he'd stolen from a patrolling Able earlier that morning, the handsome attacker was soon lost under his new look. Or so he hoped.

He gave himself a solid once over in the mirror, neatened his strict black tie, and then moved to his dresser table, where he swept his wallet off the slick, polished surface into his coat pocket. He smoothed his golden blond hair with a hasty comb of his fingers, then used both hands to pull the hood up and over his face, obscuring perfectly almost everything but his chin.

He smirked at himself again, feeling a good laugh welling up when he looked at himself in the mirror one last time. It'd been a while since he'd pulled a trick like this on the team. If all went well, they wouldn't kill him once they figured it out, either.

Now all that was left was to pull it off, and get out of the house without being caught.

Stopping at the foot of his bed, he glanced aside at the dark wood cane propped against the mattress, and sighed, a show of emotion that resulted in another wince, and even mustered the automatic reaction of his hand reaching toward his side, as if to smother the fleeting twitch of pain with just his touch.

Lowering his arm, he reluctantly fingered the shiny, cherry wood colored cane, smooth against his thumb, and rolled his eyes behind the black shades.

Yes, he hated using it, but considering how much he'd been abusing his healing injury lately, he might just need it. He stuffed it up under his long poncho, hooking it over one shoulder and keeping it close with the back of his left arm.

Poncho crinkling, he made his way to the door, hand closing over the brass doorknob noiselessly, breath coming slightly faster.

This was it. His big undercover mission about to go into full swing.

Hannibal had said if he even dared to leave the building, he'd bust him down to his boots so fast he'd break the sound barrier doing it.

Murdock had threatened, "No more girls. _Ever_."

Frankie had had nothing to say; he really didn't have any seniority when it came to the matter of bossing other members of the team around.

B.A.s' had probably stood out the most,

"You sneak out an I'll bust that cane over yo' _head_."

Yes, that line was definitely the most memorable, and probably the one most to be feared.

Hannibal would probably just yell a lot, Murdock's threat was simply impossible to be fulfilled, and Frankie would sit back and enjoy the show.

But B.A. wouldn't be above taking a swing at him, just to prove he wasn't joking. Even a breeze generated from a soft, gently placed swipe would break every tooth in his head;-vitals tools of the trade when scamming feminine targets. He could attempt to pull rank on B.A., indicating the sergeant would be hitting his superior, but B.A. never really had respected a rank very well. Even Hannibal had had to dodge a swing once, after a South American mission a couple years back that had involved hypnotizing B.A. just to get him on a plane.

Yeah, that had been an interesting mission.

At any rate, Face knew he _had_ to avoid B.A.

With a click, the knob turned and Face carefully listened for any sounds in the hall indicating the presence of a team member, and, invariably, a problem.

But none came to his attention, and the sly conman opened the door as quietly as if a breeze had blown through, poking his black clad head around the corner to eye the kitchen through tinted lenses.

B.A. and Murdock were out of sight, arguing about something behind the cream colored wall. And wherever they were, Frankie was there too, his presence indicated by the sudden guffaws that ended in a snorting giggles. Whatever Murdock and B.A. were arguing about, it had the Puerto Rican easily entertained.

_Perfect_.

Now would have been the time for one of those voice-over evil cackles they used in old movies, the conman thought with a smirk.

B.A. and H.M were the easy ones, in Face's opinion. He noticed grimly that there were no tell tale puffs of smoke sailing from the open space between the kitchen counters and the room beyond it.

Hannibal wasn't with the others, and Hannibal would be the hardest one to creep by without being noticed and pounded into the ground for breaking orders.

It's not that he minded their concern for him. He appreciated it, he really did. He hadn't forgotten that frightening night, almost two months ago, at Villa Cucina. How could he, with his stomach aching like it did now? Just the smell of Italian food make him _sick_. He could still remember the jolt when the bullet struck, feeling his thoughts swimming and fading in the growing pool of darkness the longer he struggled to breathe. How miserably cold the concrete floor had been, how each time he dared to open his eyes against the bright lights, the figures hovering over him seemed to loose shape and become unrecognizable, until all he could do was fight to hear voices, and that was only if he could ignore the pain long enough-which wasn't very often. Each breath had raked his insides like a rushing wildfire, burning, throbbing, sharp, overtaking every sense, consuming him. If he hadn't known agony before, Face was sure he experienced the _definition_ of it then.

But what the team didn't seem to realize, was that sitting cooped up inside a house for weeks on end had produced a resistance of sorts. A stir crazy feeling that demanded to be addressed. After having to miss two missions, Face had begun to feel incredibly bored. Sure, he didn't mind being spoiled now and then, but only on request, and not for months. If truth be told, he had gotten the strange suspicion that Hannibals "_Jazz_" was contagious, and he'd caught the bug. He needed action; he needed escape from the stuffy Langley house and thoughts of that Villa Cucina nightmare. And a friendly date with the cute waitress who'd so bravely knuckled under to assist him, when he could least acknowledge her that night, seemed to fit the bill.

No gunfights, no punching, shooting or roughhousing. Just a restaurant-preferably Chinese, a nice drive, some pleasant time spent with a pretty girl.

Never in history had something like that killed anyone, at least, not that Face had heard of.

If so, then he'd been brutally killed fifty times over.

Tucking his poncho and concealed cane close, Face drifted up the hall, heading away from the kitchen, with it's sounds of laughter and B.A.'s distinct "You crazy _foo_'" accusations, toward the den and patio, where the sliding doors would prove an easy exit, just as long as Hannibal wasn't in there, brooding over a cigar, as he sometimes was.

The cozy den with it's faux fireplace, assorted potted plants, exotic bronze statuary and cushy leather seating was empty, and Face smoothly tread over the shag carpeting toward the glass doors, which seemed to beckon and very nearly glow with the promise of escape.

Just as his fingers closed over the, cool mirror-surfaced handles, that familiar scent hit his nose, and he frowned distastefully, freezing in the same motion ; the thick, musty aroma of cigar smoke. He'd been caught by the good colonel, just seconds from getting out. How frustrating could you _get_!

Puffing leisurely on his cigar, Hannibal moved into the room from the hallway behind the "Able", clad in a green polo shirt and black jeans, arms crossed, surveying the room as if it were his hallowed domain.

Following his reflection in the glass of the door, Face watched the silver haired colonel glance only once at the disguised conman, then, sneakers thumping on the thick carpet, walked over to one of the overstuffed couches and plopped into it with a gusty, contented sigh. The leather squelched loudly as it accepted his weight.

Silence pervaded, and Face carefully pushed down on the door handle, tipping his head back to assume a more casual posture as he lightly pulled the door open, being met with a gust of wind and flying rain, icy cold on his exposed chin and hands.

He had to work to keep his poncho tucked close and his cane concealed, the hem flapping around his hands as he did so.

"Hey pal," He heard Hannibals' voice muse from behind, altered slightly by the presence of a cigar wedged between his teeth.

Face turned slightly, hoping the ponchos' hood would be enough to hide any tell tale features.

"If I'd wanted to take a shower, I'd of brought my towel. Get moving." The colonel looked up from his seat, arms still crossed, a lazy puff of smoke wafting over his head, bright blue eyes alight with his usual sarcastic humor. Stockwell's Ables were very rarely the recipients of any kind words from Hannibal. They were lucky to receive a verbal warning; Hannibal seemed to favor physical pranks on the unsuspecting Ables. Thankfully, Face knew most of them, therefore insuring that if Hannibal actually tried to exercise one on him, he had a good chance of being able to avoid it.

Feeling his heart settling back down where it belonged, Face gave a flippant jerk of his head, swallowing tightly over a parched throat while he dismissed the colonel in Able-like fashion, with a backward wave of his hand. He stepped over the threshold, feeling as though he had to restrain himself from not breaking into a run just to escape Hannibal's watchful eye. Keeping one hand on his hood to hold it close against the wind, Face carefully placed the heel of his boot onto the rain swept walkway leading away from the house. The last thing he needed was for Hannibal to recognize the sound of boot heels on pavement, and recall that Able's wore nothing but dress-shoes. Slinking smoothly into freedom with his hooded head bent, Face slid the door shut behind him waiting for the click of the bolt as it reached it's brass lock. A triumphantly impish grin tugged on his lips as he strode away, working expertly to place even weight on his weaker left side, keep his cane concealed and not let out a whoop of victory. Sure it would tear up every healing muscle in his abdomen, but the idea was _so_ tempting.

The dark suited, square-jawed Ables he passed at the gate barely glanced at him; he was just another one of them. Teasing his own confidence, Face dared to glance up at them as he walked by, dark glasses hiding his sparkling eyes, nodding cordially to the two of them. The responded with short, grim faced nods of their own, barely looking at him and Face continued past.

His grin returned as he rounded the car lot and kept going.

In the words of his superior officer, left somewhere back there in the rain and dreary indoors, settled in a lingering cloud of smoke:

"_I love it when a plan comes together_."


	2. To Continue

Chapter Two

'**To Con-tinue'**

After locating the bush he'd originally hidden his jacket in on a previous 'leisurely stroll' with Murdock a few days ago, Face stuffed his procured black poncho and assorted other Able garb under it, grabbed his leather coat free of clingy branches and clamored up out the ditch just several feet from the side of the road.

He swept his hands over the knees and thighs of his jeans, removing stubborn, prickly brambles that had taken a liking to his ensemble and wanted to come along for the ride.

The rain had subsided to a drizzle as the conman's' heels hit the black asphalt with an authoritative clack, straightening his back slowly from the climb up from the ditch onto the sidewalk.

Hazel eyes scrunched into a self-rebuking wince as he did so, but the expression faded quickly. As long as he didn't pull about three of those climbing stunts in a row, Face judged he might just survive this undercover excursion without too much more than the throbbing that his healing injury tended to offer on a regular basis anyway.

Standing on the street, he now took the time to tug on his slick, black leather jacket, listening to it rub and crinkle loudly as he pulled the sleeves up and used both hands to neaten the collar with his usual strict attention to perfection.

Gina didn't need to know that her date had just escaped house arrest and hiked for almost a mile in the wet, soggy underbrush, hence Face's scrutiny.

That pride-injuring cane was still with him, but, for the moment, after his hike, Face found it might actually be a welcome addition, and with a disgruntled sigh, he bent, pulled the thing out of the brush at the side of the road, and continued his journey up the quiet road with the cane to aid him.

Oh well. As long as no member of the team saw him use it, Face decided it wasn't so bad.

The asphalt was shiny with the fallen rain, and the woods on either side of the road were hauntingly quiet as he walked, footsteps the loudest sound in his ears, aside from the occasional car that cruised by.

Each time, Face tensed at the approach of an engine. He couldn't help it. Ten years of being on the run had sort of bred the instinct into him. Also made him miss the fact that there was no comforting weight of handgun anywhere on his person. He usually kept a ._357_ securely strapped in a shoulder holster around his middle, but, in his rush, he really hadn't had time to procure one from the teams' stash.

Certainly not without being noticed, especially with the colonel's hawk-eye attention to his team mates.

The thought made him uneasy for a moment as he walked, raking his fingers through his sandy golden hair, arranging it, he hoped, into a semblance of something attractive-without a mirror, it was hard to tell.

Strange, how naked he felt without a weapon, and yet how uneager he was at having to use one anytime soon.

_Like a cowboy dumped from a horse_.

He thought bitterly as he ascended the hill of the little side road, head down and handsome visage darkened with a frown,

_Too afraid to get back on_

Which was a totally ridiculous thought, he knew. He'd been through war, countless scuffles, and more hair-raising Hannibal "_Half-Pincer_" attacks then he'd cared to remember, and yet he lived to fight another day, despite having bullets whizzing overhead and, at times, nearly underfoot. But, somehow, after Villa Cucina, he just didn't have that drive, that strength he knew he should be gaining back, to want to whip out a pistol and start blazing in after the colonel into a pit of goons packing more heat than a truckload of jalapenos.

But then, charging into a collection of hothead baddies never had appealed to Face's opinionated sensibilities as much as it had to Hannibal; but he was the second in command, and could do it, _had _done, on more than one occasion.

_Now_? Face smirked mirthlessly, now he wondered if he could even pull the gun out in time to make the shot, much less miss being shot himself.

Villa Cucina's sights and sounds returned in full force, and the conman fought them off with a sharp toss of his head, focusing instead on the intersection he was coming to, letting the sights and sounds of cars and neon store signs distract him, the cool, misty air blowing across his skin as he waited for a 'Walk' signal at the end of the sidewalk. Tiny, cold droplets of rain peppered his face and made the softest of percussions against the shoulders of his coat while he waited, head tipped up, profile darkly outlined against a pure white sky.

He needed to move fast. His reserved ride would be waiting, but also, this was a part of town the team frequented often. If anyone became wise to Face's disappearance, they'd trail fire getting to into town and ruining his perfect plan.

And they would find out, Face knew, it was stupid to think otherwise. No one would allow Face the luxury of simple staying in his quarters from mid-afternoon to nightfall without so much as a peep.

Yup. There would be a commotion, but there was nothing he could do about. He had to take this one step at a time; so far so good, haven't gotten caught yet.

The walk signal binged on, and Face strode as smoothly as his cane would allow, across the walk and into the car lot on the other side of the street, where glaring street lamps glinted off the fine collection of rental cars, all arranged in glittering rows.

Boot heels clacking unevenly due to his handicap, the conman confidently walked down the rows of cars and into the polished glass doors of the establishment, adopting a stance of pure ease, as thought he hadn't walked any farther then from the lot itself as he pushed the doors open soundlessly.

The smell of cleaned leather, car wax and plastic-the undeniable "new car scent"- met his nose, mingling oddly with the scent of Face's spicy cologne as the conman moved into the welcoming warmth of indoors.

"Ah, Mister Stockwell." The middle aged, thin head salesman very nearly pranced across the lobby toward Face as soon as the glass door behind the blond conman swung shut.

This guy was a total fake, Face observed, putting on his usual classy air by smiling broadly and shaking the older man's proffered hand.

Everything about him reeked of amateurism. Face was sure he could con a thousand dollars out of the swaggering man before he even knew what hit him, but he allowed his pride to take a back seat, letting this slick salesman think he'd snared a great prize with Face's phone order for a coal-black Corvette rental, latest model he could find. Of course, Face had conned the man up to this point, so what it really was was sort of a con within a con . . . in a way that Face didn't feel like clarifying at the moment.

Soft, plushy hands that reminded Face of a waterlogged sponge took hold of his right hand with a vigorous shake as the salesman, known simply as Eli, pressed a insistent hand against the conman's back and led him into the glittery showroom, where several sporty units were being displayed under the glaring lights, and a radio was playing low music off to their right behind the reception desk.

"We have your order, Mister Stockwell, waiting out back." The man paused and eyed Face closely, eliciting a mild arch of Face's left eyebrow as Eli added, "You _do_ have your payment, I presume? Filling orders on such short notice is no cheap matter, you know."

"Why, Eli." Face feigned shock, "I'm surprised at your doubt." He flipped out a credit card from his coat pocket and pushed it into Eli's greedy palm with a sly grin,

"The gold's as good as _yours_."

_Rest assured Stockwell won't notice the missing funds_ Face thought with no little amount of evil humor, watching Eli nod enthusiastically, while passing the card off to the brunette receptionist with instructions.

He'd taken great pleasure, and pride, in connecting the card to the funds Stockwell normally reserved for mission related items.

If Hannibal were in on his little charade, Face was almost sure the colonel would've broken into a crocodile grin over the idea.

"Allow me to present you with your order." Eli bowed slightly, definitely overdoing the whole cordiality thing, and led Face to another set of doors leading to the garage and holding area outside, where the conman could already see his shiny black ride waiting, like a panther in hiding, in the drizzly rain, it's sleek, tapered nose reflecting the overcast sky. It brought back memories of his classy white '84 'Vette, mercilessly reduced to the semblance of an eraser by some idiot at an LA intersection. Frankie and his _miracle cure_ for stodgy brakes.

As soon as Face slid into the encompassing leather driver's seat, he was in a place not far from heaven, inhaling the clean smell of leather and car wax.

"She's a beauty, Eli." He winked at the salesman, who beamed in response, giving the lapel of his tan suit jacket a polite tug while simultaneously standing back from the sports car to watch as Face keyed the ignition.

That old, familiar growl roared to life under the Corvette's ebony hood, and Face grinned, ignoring Eli for the moment, just to absorb the lovely sound.

Like an old friend, the car seemed instantly to greet Face's presence, it's electronic gauges springing to life in a flash of red, green and yellow; a futuristic, but undeniably attractive feature of the 'Vettes..

The engine settled down into a contented rumble, and Face ran an approving hand over the gleaming dashboard, nodding all the while, lost in admiration. Maybe he had initially taken a liking to the sportscar because of its use for wooing the ladies, but after driving his white beauty for so long, Face had to admit, probably the only other thing that could match his affection for a pretty female, was the affection he currently harbored for the Chevy Corvette.

After exchanging a few more words, a return of his credit card, and handshake through a rolled down window, Face bid the grinning Eli farewell, and allowed himself to get lost in the intoxicating sound of the black 'vettes accelerating engine as he sped out of the lot and pulled out into traffic.

He smiled at his reflection in the side mirrors, switching on the windshield wipers as another steady rain began to patter off the glass and hardtop.

_A/N: I feel dumb. I really didn't research much on credit cards or how one can use them in a scam. I guess I'm just trusting Face to know all that stuff, because I'm a lazy bum._


End file.
